


Five Times Hawkeye and Trapper Didn't Have Sex

by rosiesbar



Series: In All Kinds Of Weather [2]
Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cheating, Closeted Character, Drunkenness, Early Days, First Dates, First Time, Firsts, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Non-Explicit, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-04 14:16:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5337158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosiesbar/pseuds/rosiesbar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(And one time they did). Part of my 'In All Kinds of Weather' series. Follows on from my earlier fic, 'Buried'. After two weeks of agonising over his drunken kiss with Hawkeye, Trapper finally decides to confront his feelings head on, and they begin a tentative, casual relationship. But many of their milestones are not quite the fairy-tale romantic experiences one might expect. (Chapters 1 & 2 rated T; onward chapters rated M for sexual content.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ONE...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following a drunken attempt at desertion, Trapper begins to deal with his feelings for Hawkeye, and decides to initiate a casual - yet nerve-wracking - first date... (Takes place a few hours after the end of 'Mail Call'.)

**Korea – April, 1951**

****

Two weeks.

It had been two weeks since Hawkeye had drunkenly confessed to a teenage summer romance with the boy across the street in Crabapple Cove; two weeks since the confession had led to some hesitant, exploratory kissing between him and Trapper; two weeks since they had woken up the following morning and both denied any memory of what had happened the night before.

Hawkeye seemed unfazed. He continued to laugh and joke his way through surgery and free time alike, chasing girls and annoying Frank and gleefully wearing out Henry's last nerve.

Trapper, however, was a very different story. The experience, and the knowledge of Hawkeye's secret, had left him feeling constantly on edge, like every casual touch between the two of them was liable to bring the full force of J-CORP crashing down upon them. He noticed how Hawkeye's jokes, which so often had a sexual edge to them, were sometimes directed at men, too; how he would flutter his eyelashes coquettishly at visiting officers and make dirty comments to Frank, just to get a rise out of him. He noticed now that Hawkeye would sometimes smile warmly at the odd handsome soldier who came through post-op, taking just a little extra time here and there, never as obvious as he was with the ladies, but unmistakeably flirtatious, and that occasionally – just occasionally – they would smile back in that same way. It gave Trapper an awful cold, sinking feeling in his gut – not because he was jealous, but because he knew what it meant now, and if _he_ could see it, what if others saw it, too?

But Trapper didn't show his concern. He still smiled at Hawkeye's blatantly filthy jokes, albeit a little more stiffly, and was perhaps fractionally less boisterous in his half of the double act. His quips were a little less snappy, his insults less biting. Hawkeye would glance at him over the prone bodies of their unconscious patients, and Trapper would hear his name and glance up. "Huh?" He never heard the setup line: his mind was somewhere else, imagining a complex labyrinth of 'maybe's and 'what if's spinning off in a hundred alternate realities that all started on that one night. The thoughts invaded his mind at every opportunity: he would lie awake at night, watching the rise and fall of Hawkeye's chest beneath his blankets, and his hands would shake and his heart would start pounding and his skin felt flushed and clammy.

And he realised he could bear it no longer.

Last night, after a heavy drinking session, he'd been so desperate to get away from the object of his desires that he'd attempted to desert and escape to the States so he could curl up in the nice, safe, respectable arms of his wife and try and forget all about them.

About Hawkeye.

He forced himself to view it strictly within that context. This was not him – it was something to do with Hawkeye. There was something about the guy that drove Trapper crazy.

Now, he sat nervously in the scrub room, wiping sweaty palms on the knees of his fatigues, and he had reached the conclusion that a different approach was in order. Maybe - just maybe - if he could satisfy his curiosity, let his fixation run its course and burn itself out, it would pass on its own. Just like the chills brought on by a fever, if he kept fighting it, he was only dragging it out more. He had to face it head on - and there was no way he could do that alone.

He felt distinctly foolish. Not since his early, teenaged attempts at dating had he ever felt so intimidated by the idea of making a move on somebody, and yet the idea of even acknowledging that had already passed between them filled him with dread.

It wasn't a fear of rejection, he knew that much: it was a fear of what it _meant_. Trapper was no prude, and he certainly wasn't a bigot, but was this really a side of himself he wanted to explore? Especially now, in a place and an institution where discovery could have the direst of consequences. And what was the point? He was _married_ , and he already had an unhealthy number of affairs under his belt. But the feelings, and the guilt they brought with them, were driving him to distraction.

"Theatrics weren't quite at the usual calibre tonight, were they, McIntyre?"

The voice broke his reverie and Trapper looked up. "What's that you're sayin', Frank?"

"One half of the cabaret duo didn't seem to be picking up his cues. You coming down with something, or did you finally get tired of Pierce's juvenile humour?"

Trapper stiffened a little. "Hawkeye's okay," he said, tossing his surgical scrubs into the laundry. "You just gotta take 'im with a pinch of salt."

Frank merely snorted and turned to leave, almost colliding with Margaret. The flurry of embarrassment and fawning apologies that followed still managed to raise a smile to Trapper's lips.

"Oh, Major Houlihan, I'm so very sorry…"

"Oh, it's quite alright Major…"

"I hope I didn't startle you…"

"Not at all…"

Chuckling, Trapper watched as the pair of them made multiple excuses and shuffled off together, pretending, with very little acting skill, that they weren't about to go and make out for a while.

He had to admit, for all their faults, the camp's infamous Majors-in-love weren't too scared to pursue the object of their affections…

To hell with it, Trapper thought. His free time in this God-forsaken place had been one debauched misbehaviour after another. Why not add one more to the list? If he indulged his curiosity, maybe it would go away. It wasn't like he was looking to spend the rest of his life with the guy.

Erring on the side of subtlety, Trapper snatched up the post-op clipboard, and, in almost unrecognisable cursive, carefully penned Hawkeye a note, all the while trying to ignore the pounding in his chest. Nothing fancy – ' _Supply room, 8pm. Be there?_ ' – signed, in a rather corny touch, Trapper felt, with a kiss.

Without a moment's further thought or hesitation, he folded the note swiftly into quarters, and stuffed it into the pocket of Hawkeye's field jacket. That done, he strode into the compound. No turning back. No changing his mind. It was done.

What exactly he would _do_ come 8pm remained a mystery even to him, but he had a while to figure that out. In the meantime, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and made a beeline for the Swamp, fighting to keep his thoughts from racing. He told himself that his trembling had nothing to do with anything other than the coolness of the air.

* * *

 

Trapper paced the supply room, already shivering. The stove in here wasn't lit, as he didn't fancy drawing attention to himself. He'd left the lights off, too. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn't have bothered him, but this was… different.

It wasn't even quite eight yet. He wasn't afraid that Hawkeye wouldn't show – oh no, his friend had swanned into the Swamp shortly after the O.R. session looking impossibly spritely, and had declared with great delight that he was meeting some mystery date in in the supply tent. Trapper had watched in wry amusement and anticipation as Hawkeye began his preparatory ablutions, surprised to find that his hands had become unpleasantly clammy. He had ducked out as Hawkeye began his preparations, washing and shaving and gargling in front of the cracked mirror that hung from the tent pole.

Hawkeye would be here for sure, and then he would have to work out what the hell to say to him. And Trapper wasn't too certain how he felt about that. Twice he almost bolted. Both times he forced himself to stay.

Now, for a third time he found himself getting cold feet. He paced, and he panicked, and he told himself over and over that it was no big deal – it was just a bit of fun and it didn't mean half of what his paranoia told him it meant…

And then the door handle of the supply tent rattled, and the door opened.

Trapper's heart leapt into his throat. Hawkeye was early! Or… what if it wasn't Hawkeye? What is it was somebody else, and then Hawkeye showed up before Trapper could persuade them to leave, and he would be forced to explain why he and Hawkeye were meeting in the supply room after dark with no girls and why Hawkeye had a love note in his pocket…

By the time a familiar figure crept into the room, Trapper had already rehearsed half a dozen explanations. Then he heard Hawkeye's smooth baritone voice humming some obscure show tune, and he slumped against the shelves with relief. ' _Talk about jumpy_ …' he scolded himself.

Holding back for just a moment, Trapper watched Hawkeye as he turned out his pockets into the small crate in the corner that doubled as a dining table for romantic nights out. Still humming, he placed a bottle of cheap wine (the brand the store in Seoul sold to you if you were particularly desperate) on the table and laid out a pair of Martini glasses. Next, he stuck a pair of candles in the centre, and rummaged in his pocket for a box of matches. The match lit on the second strike, and for a moment, Trapper watched from the shadows as Hawkeye was illuminated in the orange glow of the flame. He touched the match to each of the candles in turn, before extinguishing it and tossing it aside.

Trapper took three steps towards him, and the room seemed to spin.

Hawkeye turned. His eyes widened, and he clutched his chest, and yelped. And then, his face creasing into a grin, he bent double and cackled with laughter. "Jesus, Trapper! Don't do that to me! You nearly gave me an early coronary!"

Trapper frowned. "Yeah, sorry about that."

Then Hawkeye grabbed his arm, and Trapper twitched like he'd been electrocuted. Hawkeye didn't notice, and nudged him towards the door. "Look, you can't be here! I'm entertaining tonight! I have a reservation and everything – take yours someplace else."

Trapper swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "Uh… yeah. Hawk… about that…"

"What?" Hawkeye's gaze flickered upwards for a second – and then he froze. "Oh." He looked up, holding Trapper's gaze this time. His eyes widened again, and his jaw went slack. "Oh!" He sounded genuinely stunned. And then, gradually, as the details of the situation dawned on him, a sly smile appeared on his lips. " _Oh_ …"

The smile, no matter how ridiculous, ignited a little spark of warmth in Trapper's belly, despite the cold, and he couldn't help but smile back. "Uh… yeah."

"Oh!" Hawkeye said again, a curious, playful glint in his eye. "This note in my pocket? That was you?" He fished the note out and held it up. He looked genuinely delighted, and so help him, Trapper's heart began to pound a little faster at the sight of that look on his face.

What had he been so afraid of? "Well, there ain't nobody else in here hopin' to score with ya." The casual comment hid a multitude of emotions, but it felt _good_ to fall back into his usual good humour. It felt right and natural, and suddenly this thing he had been fretting over for two weeks didn't feel so frightening.

He moved just fractionally closer, feeling ever so slightly unsteady as he stood before Hawkeye, only a few inches away, knowing he was on the cusp of something. Or rather, _hoped_ he was…

And Hawkeye moved, too, closing the gap between them further still. For a moment, Trapper thought he was going to kiss him. The thought of kissing Hawkeye again made his stomach do an excited little backflip, and his body tensed and his heart pounded as Hawkeye's eyes flickered to his lips and back again.

"So this is… something you'd be interested in?"

"Uh…" Trapper wasn't entirely sure what 'this' was, but Hawkeye was making some vague gesture towards himself, and Trapper had to admit that the hazy ideas the notion was giving him were indeed… interesting. And frightening. And… a whole bunch of other things that he couldn't quite assign words too, but now wasn't the time. Hawkeye was looking at him earnestly, almost cautious, and yet positively brimming with pent up excitement, an excited smile playing at the corners of his mouth and his eyes sparkling with anticipation. Trapper had never seen him like this before. He'd seen how he was with the nurses: almost arrogant in his flirtations, lapping up every hint of reciprocation and gleefully pursuing any sniff of an interested party. It was actually quite touching. Trapper gazed at Hawkeye's almost-serious expression, and a smile spread across his face, mirrored by the one on Hawkeye's. His earlier hesitancy vanished. "I'd say it is."

Hawkeye drew closer, acting more like his usual unswayable self. "You been on the sauce?" he asked, pausing just inches away, his nose almost touching Trapper's, his breath warm against his skin.

"Not touched a drop," Trapper vowed. "I'm stone cold sober."

"And yet still here…" There was still hesitancy mingled in his delight, and he was still refusing to close the gap between them.

"I ain't goin' anywhere," Trapper assured him, his voice hushed, his tone earnest.

"You know," Hawkeye said, balancing on the very cusp of a kiss, "I drew a line for myself a long time ago about getting involved with married women."

"I ain't a married woman." Trapper gave him a playful smirk. "Does that make a difference?"

"I know that." Hawkeye rolled his eyes and grinned. "And something _does_ feel different. It's not that, but…" His eyes flickered again, an unmistakeable glance over Trapper's handsome form, his breathing becoming fractionally more laboured. "It's your call. I'm not making the first move here," he announced firmly, "but if this is something you want, I'm… more than willing to…" He trailed off, the not-so-explicit offer dangling in the tense air between them.

Trapper grasped it without a moment's further hesitation.

This wasn't like the drunken, surreal tryst they'd shared a fortnight earlier. Trapper consciously and decisively closed the gap between them and kissed his best friend. And unlike the first time, every sensation was crisp and clear, carving itself into his memory.

He felt aware of _everything_. Hawkeye's height in comparison to his own (Trapper was used to stooping); the slight abrasion of the stubble on his chin, even though he was freshly shaved; even the taste of him. Hawkeye tasted like spearmint toothpaste, smelled like pine soap and shaving foam and that aftershave he bought by the gallon in Tokyo. The detergent from the scrub room had left a faint aroma, clinical yet familiar. He smelt _clean_ , and in a place where Trapper spent every day battling vermin, dirt, death and disease, cleanliness was a welcome holiday. More than welcome. He inhaled deeply, deepening the kiss, pressing against Hawkeye, eager to get closer…

"Holy shit…!"

The words were murmured against Hawkeye's lips, bypassing Trapper's brain and heading straight for his mouth. He felt almost embarrassed when he heard himself!

And, of course, Hawkeye heard him, too. A good natured laugh escaped him, and he broke the kiss for a moment. His eyes crinkled in amusement, a playful smirk on his face.

"What?" Trapper mumbled, pulling back a little.

Hawkeye grinned. "Trapper – blasphemy and profanity all in one! I must be good!"

Chuckling, Trapper shot him one of his trademark crooked grins. "You ain't bad."

Laughing, Hawkeye drew closer again, his hand rising to cradle the back of Trapper's neck, holding him close. It was a gesture he had made many times before, but never had it felt so intimate until now. For a moment, Trapper thought he was going to kiss him again. He was disappointed when he didn't.

"Come on," Hawkeye said. "Have a drink with me."

Together, they retired to the cosy corner where Hawkeye had set down the wine and the candle, and sank a little awkwardly onto the old mattress that had served as the venue for countless illicit bunk-ups. Taking a moment, they sat at the little crate, their shoulders touching, and Hawkeye busied himself uncorking the wine with well-practiced ease.

"Tryin'a get me drunk again?" Trapper joked with a slightly nervous laugh.

"Not at all!" Hawkeye poured them both a glass. "I merely thought refreshment was in order, just while you get your breath back."

"I look tired to you?"

"No, but that 'deer in headlights' look you have going right now doesn't quite suit you."

"I'm sorry," Trapper said again, accepting his Martini glass full of red wine. "This is just… all so new, you know?"

"Forget it. Stop apologising." Hawkeye waved a hand dismissively and buried his nose in his wine. "Urgh, that's disgusting!" He coughed, shuddered, and stuck his tongue out, making a comic gagging noise. "Well, what are you waiting for? Drink up!"

Trapper eyed his beverage suspiciously, and took a cautious sip. It was… fairly vile. "This is like anti-freeze," he informed Hawkeye.

"If I'd known it was you," Hawkeye quipped with a sly smile, "I'd have brought the rot-gut instead of wasting the good stuff!"

"Oh, gee! Thanks!"

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that!" Hawkeye pulled him closer, and, once again, Trapper thought he was going to be kissed. Again, he was disappointed. He was beginning to notice a theme.

"So, let me get this straight here…" Hawkeye clung affectionately to Trapper's arm as he dug around in his pocket for Trapper's note, clasping it between two fingers and waving it around. "You _remembered_ that little conversation we had?"

"Looks like…" Trapper shot Hawkeye a smirk.

"You told me you didn't! I asked you what happened and you said you didn't remember!"

"Yeah… well, you said you didn't either!" Trapper gestured with his glass and took another sip.

"No, I didn't! I asked _you_ whether or not _you_ remembered what happened, so _I'd_ know whether or not it was safe to _talk_ about it once you were sober, and potentially more likely to report me or disown me or punch me in the mouth." Hawkeye sat back, surveying Trapper with a look on his face that bordered on irritation. "Do you have any idea how many weeks it took me to build up the guts to share that stuff with you? And then I wake up the next morning and you _forgot_?! Not only what I'd told you, but also the surprising but really quite delightful lip-locking that went on after…" He waggled his eyebrows and grinned.

Trapper grinned, too, a little embarrassed even now by the memory. "Yeah, that wasn't too bad, was it?"

"And you remembered everything?!" Hawkeye shook his head. "We could have had two weeks of eating each other alive, if only I'd known!"

Trapper struggled to come up with an explanation. Did he really want to? Did he want to confess to Hawkeye that he had agonised over what had passed between them, beaten himself up, and nearly bolted back to the States because he couldn't deal with it? No, he didn't. In the absence of a real explanation, he gave a highly succinct summary: "I panicked."

"You did, huh?" Now calmer, Hawkeye leaned in close once more, gently taking Trapper's hand, as he'd done countless times in friendship. "I'm sorry. It's just… it was a big deal telling you what I did. Would have been nice to have…" He paused, thinking better of whatever it was he was going to say. His fingers ran gently over Trapper's hand. "Forget it. It's not your fault. I get it – it's a big deal when you first… well, you know what I mean."

"I think I'm startin' to." Trapper swallowed. His palms were sweaty, but Hawkeye didn't seem to care. His hand continued to rub in soothing circles. Trapper glanced down as Hawkeye's fingers continued their hypnotic, teasing dance. "Are you gonna kiss me again, or are we just gonna sit here holdin' hands like a couple'a nervous high school kids whose parents are in the next room?"

Again, a sly smile spread across Hawkeye's face. "Would you like me to?"

"I'll say!" Trapper's hand was shaking a little, and he set his glass down – just in time to wind up with an armful of Hawkeye.

The man moved like you wouldn't believe when the mood took him. Gangly and awkward and all limbs, he didn't look capable, but somehow Hawkeye slid across the mattress, pressing against Trapper, his body bending to get the most contact. Trapper had never noticed before how flexible and slight he was, how those long limbs arranged themselves just so in order to turn the most casual of contacts into an embrace. He was undeniably, unapologetically sexual, and it was intoxicating!

Overwhelmed by the intensity, he wrapped his arms around Hawkeye, holding him tight, melting in the heat of his embrace, and devouring his lips. Hawkeye met him in ferocity, responding to his kisses in a way Trapper was scarcely accustomed too. His hands snaked into clothing, grasping at cloth and flesh alike. His lips pressed firmly against Trapper's, his teeth nibbled, and he growled deep in the back of his throat.

"You're an animal," Trapper found himself panting as Hawkeye bit playfully at his neck.

"Wait 'til you find out what I'm like in bed."

The comment brought with it an intoxicating cocktail that was one part arousal, one part terror, and Trapper froze. He drew back, panting, his heart racing. Waiting, he decided, would probably be a very good idea.

Hawkeye took it well, apologising sheepishly for being too forward, but he tugged nervously at his cuffs and smoothed his hair for the third time in thirty seconds. Trapper had seen him take a slap in the face and never seem so twitchy!

They slid apart a little, putting a few inches of space between them. Hawkeye, perhaps for wont of something to do with his hands, picked up his drink and handed Trapper his.

"Sorry," he said for the fifth time, taking another sip of wine.

Trapper cradled his glass, staring at it, feeling a little awkward. "It's nothin' personal. Just…"

"Too fast. I know. I do that." Hawkeye pulled his legs up to his chest, long arms resting around his knees as he curled in on himself, looking for all the world like a sheepish teenage boy on an awkward first date. He glanced up, and, noticing the way Trapper was studying him, fidgeted awkwardly. "What?"

Chuckling, Trapper decided to pass on the wine for now, and set his drink aside. Instead, his hand reached hesitantly for the back of Hawkeye's neck, his fingers questing into his hair and his thumb caressing the skin. Hawkeye stretched and leaned into the touch, practically purring. "Thanks, Hawk," he said softly.

Hawkeye moaned. "What for?"

"For showin' me somethin' new."

"New but terrifying, right?" Hawkeye laughed and took another mouthful of awful wine.

"Not so terrifying. It's been… nice, actually, an' if you don't mind, I'd sure like to do it again sometime."

Hawkeye gave up on his drink and took hold of Trapper's knee instead. "Well… you know where I live!" He leaned over and gave Trapper a gentle peck on the lips. This time, Trapper didn't pull away.

They abandoned Hawkeye's awful bottle of wine, and kissed a little more. Then they kissed a _lot_ more. And then, at last, having concluded that half an hour was far too long to be away from the camp without drawing suspicion, they agreed to call it a night. After a momentary readjusting of both clothing and underwear, Hawkeye plucked his field jacket, candles, and bottle from their cosy corner, and kissed Trapper affectionately on the lips. "Until next time, _mon capitan_ ," he waxed lyrical with a smile.

Trapper smiled back. That smile didn't vanish, even once they ventured back out into the cool spring night and trudged across to the Officer's Club. There, they slung their arms around the nearest nurses like nothing had happened. It was delightfully warm inside. Trapper was giddy with romance, and, even as he cosied up to Nurse Marshall, it was Hawkeye he was staring at.

"Where have you been?" Margie Cutler demanded to know as Hawkeye nuzzled up against her. "Your Martini's getting warm."

"You bought me a drink?"

"Yeah. It'll be about body temperature now. I drank it over half an hour ago. Where were you?"

"Oh, you know me," Hawkeye said, shooting Trapper a grin. "I get around."

Trapper tried to disguise the smug, contented smirk spreading across his features. He failed dismally.


	2. TWO...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawkeye’s humour becomes a sticking point for Trapper as they continue to date (and kiss) in secret, while Hawkeye decides to delve into Trapper's sexual past. (Picks up at the end of the episode ‘Springtime’.)

**Korea - April, 1951**

The door swung closed behind Radar's back as he dashed off through the rain, and Hawkeye pulled his robe around him to ward off the soggy draught. "Yeesh, what happened to my beautiful spring day?"

"You didn't want it. Remember?" Trapper's comment went unheard in the din of the raindrops striking the canvas. He had his back to Hawkeye, and was watching Radar through the mosquito netting. At last, the clerk vanished, and the compound was empty. Only now, did Trapper turn and face him. "Mind if I ask ya a question?"

Hawkeye looked up from refilling his Martini. "Sure, shoot."

"What got _into_ you just now?!" Trapper's question was a frantic whisper, and he sank onto Hawkeye's cot, leaning in close beside him.

Eyeing his proximity, Hawkeye's lip twitched as he fought to supress a smirk and failed. "Nothing – but if you get any closer, you'll be answering your own question." Trapper cringed at that, and looked away. "Trapper, I honestly have no idea what you're talking about."

" _That's_ what I'm talkin' about!" Trapper stabbed a finger in Hawkeye's direction. "Those jokes of yours! An' in front of _Radar_?! Crap about me 'losin' my job in the State Department' an' askin' if Radar's new squeeze is a 'he'?"

"What? He figured I was kidding! You know my sense of humour." Hawkeye waved a dismissive hand, and took another sip of Martini.

"He seemed kinda pissed if you ask me. 'Aunt Hawkeye'! Jeez, are you _broadcastin'_ or somethin'? Anyone would think you _want_ us to get caught!" Trapper muttered towards the floor and ran his hands through his hair.

Hawkeye regarded him curiously, suddenly a little less sure of himself. "Okay, I laid it on a little thick just now. I'm sorry. I guess two weeks of intensive mouth-to-mouth with a handsome surgeon just went to my head a little." He smiled, but the compliment didn't win him so much as a giggle. "But can you tell me this? Has my sense of humour changed? Can you honestly say that you never noticed me doing this before?"

Trapper thought on that for a moment. "Okay, you got me."

"And has anybody ever commented? Or got suspicious? Or thrown me in the stockade for sexually subversive wisecracking?"

Frowning, Trapper nodded. "Point taken." He picked at the fluff on Hawkeye's blanket, trying to calm his racing thoughts.

Hawkeye gestured with his drink, his voice creeping up in volume. "My humour is my defence mechanism, you know that. I joke about death because I can't away from it; I joke about sex because I can't get enough of it; I joke about _this_ because…" He paused, suddenly feeling very aware that the tent flaps were up… He lowered his voice. "Because I can't talk about it any other way." His fingers brushed against Trapper's hand.

"I guess," Trapper explained, sullenly, "now I know, I keep noticin' it – what it really means – an' it's like you're… givin' off signals or somethin'! What if somebody notices an' you get in trouble; get _us_ in trouble?"

"I won't! Believe me, nobody ever notices – except the people I _want_ to notice. It's called 'hiding in plain sight'. It's worked for me for _years_. We are _not_ giving off signals, and we are _not_ going to get in trouble!" Trapper just stared at him. "We're _not_! Look, I'll take your mind off it. What can I do to make you feel better? How about one of my patented soothing foot rubs? Huh?" He tugged at Trapper's robe. "Come on, pop your feet up here."

He could see Trapper mulling it over, even as he sat there in stern silence. Neither one of them was known for his willpower, and Trapper caved in a matter of seconds. "Not here. People'll see."

"I'll lower my tent flaps for you." He did the Groucho brows thing, and Trapper cracked up. "Come on, get your boots off. It's just a foot rub."

Trapper shook his head. "We're takin' this to the supply room. Hidin' in plain sight is one thing, makin' out is strictly an indoor activity."

Hawkeye watched as he pulled his waterproof on over his robe. "Who said we were making out? I never mentioned going above the ankle."

Trapper snorted. "Don't pull my leg, Hawk. These past two weeks, we ain't hardly been alone in a room together without you anglin' for some lip action!"

"That's not true! That afternoon Margie bit me, I was out of action for at least ten hours!"

"For you, that's practically celibacy!" Pulling up his hood, Trapper gave Hawkeye a glimpse of the broad grin he had grown so fond of. "Get your coat on, honey. Supply room, five minutes."

The door to the Swamp banged closed, and Hawkeye smirked and hugged himself as the butterflies in his stomach began to flutter.

* * *

"Feeling better yet?"

"Huh?" Trapper lounged comfortably in front of him, propped up on the pile of blankets in the corner, a Martini in his hand and a smile on his face, hazel eyes half closed in deep relaxation.

Hawkeye intensified his rubbing, and Trapper made a moan that was practically obscene. "Oh, I like that sound," Hawkeye murmured, smirking a little. "I'll have to remember _that_ little manoeuvre."

Trapper moaned again. "You give the best foot-rubs this side of Tokyo."

"I could rub some other body parts too, but for that I'd have to charge you extra." Right as the words exited his mouth, he regretted them. 'That _is exactly the sort of thing that's making him uneasy…'_

Fortunately, Trapper laughed. "Maybe later."

It was a get-out, Hawkeye concluded. He was moving too fast. He kicked himself, abandoned the massage, and plucked his drink from the crate beside him, settling down in the cosy nook of Trapper's arm that had become his new favourite place. "Sorry," he murmured, raising the cocktail glass to his lips. "I'm a regular motor-mouth tonight. I'll try and rein my tongue in a little."

Trapper squeezed his shoulder. "I appreciate it."

"You and your delicate sensibilities! It's been a while since I was with a guy who's never… I mean… you know."

Trapper turned and gave him a look. "Call me a virgin an' I'll slug ya."

"I swear on my mother's grave, the word never even crossed my mind!" Laughing, Hawkeye burrowed deeper into the warmth beside Trapper's body and wrapped an arm around him. "I can't believe there were no other guys before me, though!"

"Oh, Hawk, c'mon!"

Sitting up, Hawkeye had that manic look on his face he always had when he latched onto a mystery or a personal challenge and wasn't about to let go. "I'm serious! I spent months trying to figure you out – and I am _good_ at figuring guys out! _I never knew_!" A pause. "Did _you_?"

Trapper merely shrugged and sipped his Martini.

"You're honestly telling me you've never even known until now? Never fooled around a little? Explored? Or was it just that you never met a guy as irresistibly attractive as me?" He grinned – half joking and half digging.

Trapper didn't bite. "I have a wife, remember."

"How could I forget?"

There was a slight edge to Hawkeye's tone, and a strange tension in his smile. Trapper fell silent, not quite ignoring him, not quite apologising.

"That never stopped you with women, though."

Trapper frowned, and Hawkeye felt his body stiffen beside him. "That's different."

Hawkeye swallowed and chewed on his lower lip. Maybe he shouldn't have gone down this avenue of conversation… but he really wanted to know at times what it was this (apparently) heterosexual married man saw in him. It seemed the most unlikely match in the world, and yet every moment, every kiss, and every touch served only to draw him in deeper into this bizarre web of intrigue, excitement and intimacy. "I'm just… fascinated," he tried gently, settling back down and running his fingers over the yellow fluff of Trapper's robe. "Where did this come from? Don't get me wrong, I'm flattered that I turned your head, and I'm not knocking your taste in men, but how come at thirty-three years old you're suddenly batting for both sides?"

Trapper sipped his drink and sighed through his nose. "We ain't all like you, Hawk. Not everybody gets 'emselves figured out at sixteen, or seventeen, or however old you were when you started eyein' up guys."

"Eleven," Hawkeye corrected him. "Marty Fieldhouse. He sat next to me in English class and I used to lose my place on the page because I was too busy staring at him. That was when I realised that kids sometimes beat you up if they think you're a fruit."

Trapper's expression darkened, and he frowned. "What happened to hidin' in plain sight?"

Hawkeye shrugged and patted his thigh. "I was _eleven_! They don't enrol you in homosexual espionage classes until you hit puberty."

Chuckling, Trapper extracted the olive from his drink and popped it into his mouth. "Homosexual espionage! You crack me up."

Hawkeye looked up, and Trapper met his gaze. There was something about Trapper's laugh that just made him feel warm inside, and he shot him a winning smile. "That's where I learned to be an _undercover_ fruit. A fruit that nobody suspects of being a fruit. I am the sexual equivalent of a tomato. Firm, juicy and tricky to categorise."

Trapper laughed and pulled him over for a kiss. "Damned straight."

"See, even you're falling for it." Hawkeye kissed him back, just so they were even. "So, back to you!"

"Aw, Jeez!"

"Was there really no-one else of the male persuasion before now? No high school crush? No college obsession? No furtive adolescent glance that set your heart pounding and your loins thrumming?"

"You sure ask a lot of questions," Trapper huffed, with only mild annoyance but enough to make Hawkeye employ his best casual shrug to downplay his questioning.

"You don't have to tell me. I'm just asking."

"Yeah! And ya _keep_ askin'!" Trapper's eyes met his, and Hawkeye's nonchalant façade cracked, revealing an appealing smile. At last, Trapper downed his Martini and placed the glass on a nearby shelf with a thud. "Aw, to hell with it! I'll tell ya."

"Ooh, this is fantastic!" Hawkeye giggled, sitting cross-legged beside Trapper like a teenager at a slumber party. "I love dirty stories!"

Trapper gave him a look. "You're in for a disappointment."

"Make something up then. I don't care." Hawkeye grinned lasciviously.

"You wanna hear this story or not?"

"Okay, okay! I'll be good."

Settling back down, Trapper sighed. "Well, you know I played football in medical school."

"Did you? I heard you just sat on the bench and leered at the cheerleaders."

"Little from column A, little from column B. Anyway, tail end of '42 we had this game – an' I see this guy on the other team over on their side of the field, talkin' to a couple of girls, an' he took my goddamn breath away. I couldn't stop lookin' at 'im! His smile, his eyes, the way he moved."

"Cute body?" Hawkeye cracked a smile.

Trapper chuckled. "Distinctive. I kept… starin' at 'im! All through the game, I kept screwin' up! Every tackle, every catch, every throw... I'd been playin' since I was in high school an' I got my butt handed to me by this scrawny lil kid fresh outta pre-med who only made the team 'cos half their guys got drafted."

"Hey, don't knock guys like that. I had a highly successful two year football career of my own as a result of the draft – right up until they replaced me a fifty-five year old amputee who was retraining as a pastry chef."

Trapper chuckled, but didn't speak.

Poking Trapper in the ribs, Hawkeye smirked and cuddled closer again. "Enough about my shining athletic prowess, anyway – tell me more about your boy. You talk to him after the game? Meet him in the locker room? Please tell me this story ends with a steamy rendezvous in the showers after the other players had gone home!"

"Sorry to disappoint ya. I waved across the field at the end of the game, an' that's it. Then I went home. I went away, buried my feelin's, an' went on a two month bender of wine and women to try an' forget the whole thing. I guess that's the difference between you an' me: you hide in plain sight, I hide my head in the sand."

Hawkeye was sitting up, staring at Trapper with a look almost akin to pity. "I'm so sorry."

Trapper shrugged. "It ain't so bad. I met my wife a year later. So what could I 'ave missed out on?"

"Well, a year of sexual exploration for a start!" Hawkeye was almost angry. "Nobody should have to bury their feelings like that! At the very least, you could've found out _then_ what you're only finding out now! You'd have a ten year head start on all this! And for all you know, that guy was gazing back at you across the field and wishing you would come over and talk to him! He might have spent weeks thinking about you too."

Trapper chuckled. He couldn't imagine ever being like Hawkeye; Hawkeye who _relished_ this side of his sexuality rather than hid from it. What good would _knowing_ have done? It was still a taboo, still _criminal_. At best, he would have wound up with a wife and kids and a mortgage, just like he had now. At worst… he didn't like to think about that. Trapper was a firecracker in many ways, but his rebellious streak extended only so far as Army regulations and womanising. He just… wasn't the kind of man Hawkeye was. It was an interesting fantasy world Hawkeye painted, but about as realistic as a Van Gogh. "I don't think so, Hawk." Trapper looked away as he retrieved his empty glass and poured himself another Martini.

"You never know! That's all I'm saying – you never know."

"Oh, I do." He set the pitcher down, and took a deep breath. "I know because the day you showed up in this cess-pool, you looked right at me an' didn't even recognise me."

Hawkeye stared. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. "I… What?"

Trapper took a long drink, and then let out a long sigh. "Dartmouth, 1942. You played like a high school kid who should never've made the cut, but I couldn't throw worth a damn with you around, an' you an' your buddies wiped the floor with us."

Hawkeye's jaw dropped. For several seconds he just sat there. "I don't… I don't remember."

Trapper reached out to him, gently cupping his face, his fingers delving into the soft hair at the nape of his neck – a spot which was rapidly becoming his favourite area to caress. "It's ok. I knew you didn't. You just grinned at me in that way you always do, cracked a joke about the porter bein' on a lunch break, an' asked what we do for fun around here. All those feelin's came bubblin' right back to the surface again, an' I buried 'em – just like I've done for ten years. An' they stayed buried – right up until you told me you were… well, whatever it is you like to call yourself."

Hawkeye smirked. "A tomato?"

That managed to raise a chuckle. "Yeah, a tomato. So yeah, while I gotta admit this ain't exactly an _entirely_ new experience for me, God help me, Hawkeye, you're still the only man I ever looked twice at."

Hawkeye nodded, feeling a little overwhelmed. Through the slightly peculiar mess of emotions he felt at Trapper's words, he managed a smile. "I'm flattered."

Trapper smiled back, and cupped Hawkeye's cheek with a gentle hand. "That's great. Now, gimme some tomato juice, would ya?" And then he kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to my old RP buddy, George, for concepts with regards to Trapper's backstory in this chapter. Further chapters will be rated M (mature) due to sexual content. Continue at your own discretion.


	3. THREE...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawkeye and Trapper take some alone time away from the visiting Greek soldiers, and Trapper learns that ouzo has the capacity to make Hawkeye get… well, a little handsy! (Set during the party in ‘Private Charles Lamb’.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and onwards are rated M (mature) for sexual content.

**Korea - May, 1951**

"Hawkeye, you're drunk!"

"I'm not. It's just the rest of you that are sober!" Hawkeye cackled at his own joke, but did not relent on trying to tug Trapper towards the supply room.

"How much ouzo have you had?"

"It's hard to say. The nice man with the sexy accent kept handing me drinks, and I can never say no to a man with a sexy accent."

Trapper felt a stab of jealousy. "Sexy accent?"

Before he could contemplate the possibility of Hawkeye running off with one of the visiting Greek soldiers, they had reached (or, in Hawkeye's case, collided with) the supply tent. "Shush!" Hawkeye hushed him as he bounced off the corrugated iron with a painful clang, his cowboy hat all askew.

"We shouldn't be doin' this! Not _now_!"

Trapper's warning fell on deaf ears, as Hawkeye was already opening the supply room door… only to slam it closed again a moment later, cackling with laughter. Trapper bristled – someone was bound to notice them! The party was still in full swing, and there were revellers spilling out into the compound. He wasn't as drunk as Hawkeye, and his caution had yet to be thrown to the wind.

"Did you see that?!" Hawkeye asked, gesturing towards the door. "I love these guys – top notch entertainment! Dinner _and_ a show all in one evening!"

"Who was in there?" Trapper demanded, his voice low. "Did they see us?"

Hawkeye gave a drunken giggle. "Oh, I think so – but judging by what they were doing, I doubt they give a flying fig about us." He snorted with laughter and grabbed Trapper's hand. "Come on – I know another place."

"Uh… Hawk?"

Hawkeye paid him no mind, and led him round to the back of the supplies, settling them into a dark little spot. To Trapper's back was the solid wall of the supply shed. Before him was open space: the motor pool, a minefield, and Hawkeye. If someone were to walk by, they would be in plain sight, lit up by the moon like a goddamn search beam, and hideously conspicuous in their garish Hawaiian shirts.

"If somebody sees…"

"Who's gonna see?" Hawkeye gestured to the empty landscape. "The party's going on way over there! Why would anybody come out to the motor pool?"

"They might – if their boyfriend was pickled up to 'is eyeballs on ouzo an' figured this was a cosy spot to make out!" He gave Hawkeye a pointed look.

Hawkeye's face cracked into a wide grin. "Oh, I'm your _boyfriend_ now? I don't remember agreeing to that!"

He pressed a slightly sloppy kiss to Trapper's lips, and Trapper gradually relented to this rather crazy idea. Clearly Hawkeye wasn't the only one who'd had too much ouzo… "Why we gotta do this _now_ , huh?"

Kissing him again, Hawkeye leaned against him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and pressing him into the cool metal of the supply hut. "Because I wanted to."

Trapper had no argument to offer against that. Drunk as he was, Hawkeye was still a good kisser, and he usually tasted good. Right now, he tasted of booze and greasy food, but it wasn't unpleasant. His co-ordination was a little off, but Trapper solved that by grabbing him and steering him in the right direction.

"There was something else I wanted to do, too," Hawkeye breathed into Trapper's ear.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah..." Pulling back for a moment, Hawkeye regarded Trapper with lustful eyes, his gaze flickering down his body and then up to his face again. "I wanna see what you look like when you come."

Hawkeye nearly got his wish right there and then. Trapper's blood rushed south and he suddenly felt more than a little unsteady on his feet. He made a sound somewhere between a 'oh' and a 'huh' that slurred from his lips like he'd suddenly absorbed all of Hawkeye's blood alcohol through osmosis. He swallowed, and Hawkeye's gaze flickered once more, watching his adam's apple bob temptingly at his throat.

Hawkeye licked his lips.

"You do, huh?" Trapper managed to utter.

"Yup." Hawkeye popped the 'P' almost obscenely and pressed closer, an almost predatory grin on his face. "I wanna see the expression on your face. And I wanna hear the sounds you make. And I wanna be the one who does it to you."

Letting out a long, low moan, Trapper let his protestations melt away. Suddenly, he couldn't give a damn about the crowded mess tent only a few feet away...

Leaning close, Hawkeye dotted kisses up his jawline before whispering in his ear: "Does that sound good, Trap? You wanna do that?"

All Trapper could do was whimper. Hawkeye's hand was already venturing towards its intended target. At the merest brush of his fingertips, Trapper heard the words "Oh God, yes," and realised he was the one uttering them.

Encouraged, Hawkeye grinned broadly and set about seeking entrance to Trapper's fatigues. Trapper felt like the drunk one, now: his head resting against the wall as he regarded his lover through a hazy fog of arousal, while Hawkeye made swift work of his clothing with unexpected precision.

At last, he found his prize. "Ohhh…" he purred, smiling as if he'd just received a gift that he'd always wanted.

The first touch made Trapper jolt. Hawkeye's hands were cold! And he was being rather blatant, rummaging around in Trapper's shorts with a filthy smile on his face. Trapper grabbed him, pulling him closer, as if to hide what he was doing. "Hawkeye, if somebody sees…"

"They won't," Hawkeye promised. "We'll be quick, I swear. I'm _very_ good. You'll be lucky if you last five minutes."

Trapper was about to laugh, but never got the opportunity. 'Very good', it turned out, was something of an understatement. This wasn't the sloppy, drunken make-out session he'd expected – this was surreal: sharp, short, and overwhelming in its intensity. Hawkeye had him pinned against the shed, one hand down his pants, the other against the wall, and he was wasting no time. His entire being was focused on Trapper – when he wasn't kissing, he was watching, gazing at Trapper's expression with almost reverent desire. Very, _very_ quickly, Trapper was gasping for breath and his legs were shaking.

"Christ, Hawk… you weren't... kiddin'!"

Hawkeye kissed him, deep and passionate, as if by doing so he could somehow share in his pleasure. "Go on," he murmured against his lips. "Let me see you. Do it for me. Come on, Trap…"

Trapper gasped. It was as if Hawkeye's words held some kind of special power. His orgasm was swift but intense, a sudden stab of ecstasy that shook him down to the core and left him shaking on his feet, clinging onto Hawkeye for balance as his legs threatened to give way.

When he opened his eyes – he didn't know he'd closed them – Hawkeye was looking at him with a delighted, self-satisfied smirk on his face. Eventually, as Trapper began to get his bearings, the smile gave way to a laugh. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that!" Glancing down, he extracted his hand from Trapper's underwear, and re-fastened his fatigues, giggling at his own naughtiness. "Ooh, it's like Christmas came early – and so did you!"

Trapper stared at him, feeling strange and light-headed as he watched Hawkeye fish a handkerchief from his pocket to remove all trace of their torrid little encounter. Had they really just done that? Had Hawkeye really…? "What about you?" he asked, trying to focus on anything but the surreal sense that he'd just crossed some sort of line that he never knew existed. Hawkeye had… touched him. He'd climaxed at another man's hand. What did that make him? Was he supposed to return the favour now? How did this work?

Hawkeye laughed raucously, pocketing his handkerchief, and grabbed Trapper's arm. "Trapper," he declared loudly as they headed back to the party, "I'm so drunk right now I can barely stand up, let alone get a hard-on!"

Trapper laughed, and tried not to feel too guilty about the fact that, somewhere in the darkest recesses of his mind, he was almost relieved to hear that.


	4. FOUR...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nurses are being evacuated in preparation for an enemy attack. Nurse Baker has a proposition for Trapper, and Trapper has a proposition for Hawkeye. (Takes place during the episode 'There is Nothing Like a Nurse'. My episodes are slightly out of order from this point on, but the story worked better this way, so I hope you’ll grant me some artistic licence!)

**Korea – May, 1951**

It felt strange. He couldn't quite understand why, but it just did. The body in his arms was too small, the lips that pressed against his, too smooth, and the voice that whispered breathily in the confines of the supply room, far too high.

He hadn't been with a woman in weeks. Not really. For the sake of appearances, he had chased and flirted and dated and charmed. He'd taken them to movies and Rosie's and Seoul (oh, my!) but not here. Not for the explicit purpose of… taking. It hadn't been a conscious decision to stop, he'd just had… other things on his mind. One thing in particular.

Across the room, on the other side of a shelf load of supplies, Trapper was canoodling with Lieutenant Janet Baker, and Hawkeye tried to ignore the fierce stab of jealousy. What right did he have to be jealous? Trapper wasn't his. They'd never said anything about not sleeping with other people. So, when Baker had learned that the nurses were all being shipped out and had insisted that Trapper give her a 'good send-off', he hadn't wanted to refuse. He'd informed Hawkeye of his plans soon enough, and Hawkeye had tried really hard to keep the disappointment off his face… 

 

> _"You're jealous!" Trapper had gloated, grinning as he twisted the cap off his bottle of aftershave._
> 
> _"_ _No, no!" Hawkeye had looked away, shrugging and shaking his head as he sat on his cot, his foot twitching. "No, it's not that. I know we're not… I mean we haven't even… I mean it's not like that, is it? This thing. With us." His hands flapped wildly and he squirmed in his chair a little._
> 
> _"_ _Of course not!" Trapper replied a little too quickly. "I mean, you know I'm still seein' girls, right?"_
> 
> _"_ _I didn't doubt it!"_
> 
> _"_ _And you're still seein' girls…"_
> 
> _"_ _Of course I am! Why would I stop?"_
> 
> _Glancing towards the door in case Frank returned, Trapper had leaned in, lowering his voice and whispering: "Besides, we got reputations to maintain, y'know! If we quit chasin' nurses, someone's gonna know we're up to somethin'!"_
> 
> _Hawkeye shrugged. He'd done his share of chasing, but not a whole lot of catching lately, and, to be honest, his heart wasn't in it. "Of course. It's… self-preservation, that's what it is, even if we didn't want to, which we do!"_
> 
> _"_ _Exactly!" Trapper gave his reflection a decisive nod, then grinned. "I'll tell you what might be fun – you bring a girl too. We'll tell 'em we double booked the supply room." He shot Hawkeye a suggestive, hopeful look. "I think that sounds kinda hot, don't you?"_
> 
> _Hawkeye tried to get his head round it, unsure why it bothered him so much. It wasn't like they hadn't double-dated before – lately, they'd been treating it like a handy way of spending time together without drawing suspicion – it was just that they always drew the line at second base. It certainly wasn't a jealousy thing! He thought back on the number of times recently when they'd been dancing or cosying with girls in the O.C. and happened to smile at one another across the room. That was fun, in its own way, but… "Hot?"_
> 
> _The grin returned, salacious and full of lustful promises. "Yeah. You know? Me watchin' you, you watchin' me? Doesn't that sound hot?"_

  
It wasn't hot. Hawkeye tore his gaze from Trapper's handsome profile and captured Nurse Mitchell's lips in a fierce kiss, seeking comfort. She had realistically been his only choice, partly because he had made an elaborate show of pursuing her for over two months now, but also because Margie Cutler had been shipped Stateside last week.

Hawkeye _missed_ Margie. Margie had been wonderful. Margie _understood._ She'd had them figured out within a week, and thought it was the best news to ever hit Korea – not least because she was hoping to have the pair of them simultaneously before she shipped out. Margie had never got her wish – much to Hawkeye's disappointment – and this probably would have been right up her street. He had to admit, too, Margie would have been much more fun in this situation. What was it Trapper had said all those months ago? 'We'll share her.' By the time she left, Margie was thrilled to be sharing _them_ – with each other.

Hawkeye found himself struck with a sudden pang of nostalgia for the good old days. ' _What would that have been like_?' He moved away from Mitchell's lips to nibble on her ear and bury his face in the crook of her neck. What it would feel like to be pinned between the pair of them? Soft, delicate Margie on one side, Trapper on the other…

"I'm going to miss you something awful."

Mitchell's words brought him back to reality with a thump, and he remembered whose neck he was nibbling. "Did you know you had this thing back here?"

"What thing?"

"My tongue."

The joke tripped out like he was on autopilot, and Mitchell gave a little sigh. "Why are all the best guys married?"

Hawkeye's brow furrowed. "Who said I was?"

"You did!" She bit him on the nose playfully, making him yelp in pain.

"Ow! Ow!" When had he told her that? Probably to explain the sudden case of cold feet he'd got on their last date… He winced, and rubbed his nose. "That's my best nose…"

"Oh, stuff your nose!" Mitchell grabbed him and kissed him, and Hawkeye let himself be kissed for a moment, until a rustle of movement out of the corner of his eye made them both turn.

Peering out from behind the shelving with an armful of Lieutenant Baker, Trapper shot the pair of them a look. "Do you mind? I paid good money for this supply room." And then he was gone.

Hawkeye felt a stab of something unpleasant that got him right in the gut. His face flushed and his eyes stung and he knew it had nothing to do with Mitchell biting his nose. He kissed her – hard. She kissed him back, and for a moment or so he clung to her like an anchor and wished he could make sense of the jealousy surging inside him. He squeezed her tighter, whimpering as he tried to lose himself in the soft kisses and the scent of her perfume.

"Hawkeye?" His name was murmured against his lips, and he pulled back a little. She was gazing up at him, not with naughtiness or desire in her eyes, but concern. Was his conflict really so obvious to everyone but Trapper? Was his discomfort written on his face? Could Mitchell read his mind? ' _Oh, there's a thought – heaven forbid_!' She continued to stare at him. "Are you alright?"

He didn't say anything. Even if he could put it into words, it wasn't like he could actually _tell_ her. Instead, he took her hand in his own and gave her his best fake-sincere look. "I… I'm just really gonna miss you."

Her sweet little face lit up in a huge smile. "Oh, Hawkeye! I had no idea!"

She wrapped her arms around him and they tumbled onto the sunken mattress in the corner, whereupon Hawkeye found himself trapped beneath a hundred and twenty five pounds of excited nurse. It was something he would have given his right arm for under normal circumstances, but now, he found himself strangely ambivalent to the whole situation. His eyes wandered through the shelving to where Trapper had settled Baker onto a supply crate, and the pair of them were now gleefully delving under one another's clothing.

To bail now would only cause a scene, and result in having to make either some inventive excuses, or an explanation he wasn't ready to face. And so he watched, and tried desperately to push aside his jealousy and appreciate the erotic display being played out before him.

Mitchell, too, glanced over towards Trapper and Baker, and gave a nervous giggle. "This feels… kinda weird, doesn't it? Are you sure you want to? _Here_?" The kindly smile on her face was almost patronising, but at least suggested there would be no hard feelings if he issued yet another rain check.

There were also no hard feelings anywhere else right now, but Hawkeye was trying quite determinedly to remedy that as he watched Trapper devouring Baker's throat. "That's a good question." Then Trapper shrugged his shirt off and pulled his t-shirt over his head, and Hawkeye felt the first sparks of arousal begin to tingle in his loins.

Mitchell hadn't noticed the look in his eyes, as she, too, was gazing in Trapper and Baker's direction. "Oh, my!" Her voice was soft, but there was excitement in it, too, and Hawkeye caught her appreciative smile when their eyes met again.

"This really does it for you, huh?" Maybe this wasn't so bad… "I think I'm getting there," he admitted, his voice tight. Then Trapper moaned, and Hawkeye's eyes widened and his breath caught in his chest as he watched somewhat enviously as Baker raked her nails up and down his back. "Oh, yes," he breathed, his fingers curling around the edge of the mattress, and around Mitchell's sleeve. "I think I'm definitely getting… up."

Mitchell giggled, gave him a slightly cheeky grin, blissfully oblivious to exactly what and _who_ had aroused him so, and kissed him once more. "How 'up' are we talking here?" He felt her lips curve into a smile, and then a moment later, he also felt her hand slip into his lap. "Oh… _very_ up."

He grinned and pulled her close once more, kissing her passionately, grateful beyond measure that he had somebody to distract him from the awful feeling simmering in his guts. She was no Margie, but she was cute and fun and seemed game for a good time…

He wasn't wrong.

Hawkeye's belt gave way to her insistent hands with a rattle. Clearly, in light of his hesitancy to consummate their relationship over the last few weeks, she had decided to take matters into her own hands, so to speak. As she eased his pants down over his hips, he saw Trapper do the same, revealing a most tantalising portion of his naked backside, right before Baker's equally naked legs wormed their way around his waist, obscuring the view. Hawkeye realised, with some remorse, that this was the most he had ever seen of Trapper's body in this kind of setting… and it wasn't even _him_ he was fucking! He pushed the thought from his mind, and shifted on the mattress to get a better view.

Trapper really was built, the son-of-gun. Broad shoulders, nicely toned, and his skin just beginning to acquire the glow of a tan now the weather was warming up. The muscles in his back flexed as his hands set to work exploring Baker's equally attractive form. Hawkeye licked his lips. What he wouldn't give to have Trapper touch him like… "Oh!"

"Is this okay?" Mitchell's voice breathed into his ear, as sensual and erotic as the thing she was doing with her hands.

Hawkeye stared over the top of her head. "Uh-huh…"

Mitchell giggled again. "This is kind of naughty, isn't it?"

Hawkeye nodded, unable to tear his eyes away. "Yeah… yeah, it is." As he watched, Trapper shifted, and Hawkeye heard Baker let out a moan. It was a sound that both aroused and devastated him all at once. Then Trapper made a soft, murmuring sound that shot straight to Hawkeye's crotch…

He grabbed Mitchell, wrapping one arm around her waist to pull her up for a kiss, but never taking his eyes off Trapper.

Oh, what he'd give to be the one making Trapper make those sounds! Over the past week, he'd practically been _living_ for those noises! When he wasn't cosying up with Trapper in a dark corner someplace, he'd be planning what he could do the next time they were together. And now, watching from across the room, he physically _ached_ to touch him. He wanted desperately for Trapper to turn around, to look at him, to remember he was still there. He wanted Trapper to watch him as ardently as he was, to lap up his sounds of pleasure and imagine what it would be like to touch him like that…

But Trapper didn't turn, and by the time Mitchell's soft hands had brought him to a rushed, uneventful climax, the pained sob that escaped Hawkeye's lips was lost in the din.

* * *

Three minutes.

Three minutes and then he could leave, go curl up in his cot, and drain the still dry.

He'd been drinking steadily since the nurses left. It occurred to him with more than a little embarrassment that he probably wasn't fit for post-op duty, but the shift had gone off without a hitch, for which he was infinitely grateful.

Much of the previous evening had been spent propping up the bar in the O.C., indulging in far too many cocktails for a man who had to work the early shift in the morning. But the 'game' in the supply room had left him with an unpleasant taste in his mouth that could only be washed away with a Martini. As for the gnawing sense of jealousy and resentment, he had no idea what drink was necessary to cure those.

Now, the remains of a hangover continued to throb behind his eyeballs, and he tried, with little success, to focus on the handover form. Instead, his mind went back to the supply room, as it had been doing frequently for the past couple of days.

Trapper and Baker had dressed and left without even a backwards glance, and he'd been left alone with Mitchell, who had been more than eager to continue. Once again, Hawkeye had apologised to her and declined. He'd had to get out of there.

With a shudder, he tried to push it to the back of his mind. He glanced at his watch again.

Two minutes.

He ran his finger down the column of patient names and medications, ticked all the relevant boxes, and scrawled his name at the bottom. Paperwork done, he tossed the clipboard aside.

Post-op was silent, the patients exhausted and dosed up. For the first time in weeks, Hawkeye found himself craving – _really_ craving – some female company. If Mitchell were to return now, he would whisk her off to the Swamp and grant any naughty little desire she could come up with, just so he had somebody to distract him from the tangle of thoughts that were unravelling themselves in his brain. Suddenly, chasing girls seemed like a favourable, uncomplicated alternative to the emotional mess he seemed to have fallen into – a mess he didn't even want to contemplate.

He hadn't even noticed it happening. It hadn't occurred to him until Trapper was all over Baker like a rash. Why did that _bother_ him? Why did he care? He _knew_ he'd been seeing her! Was it really so different to be faced with the physical proof of it right before his eyes? Were girls such a _threat_ all of a sudden? A threat to _what_? How did he think this was going to end?

Yesterday in the Officer's Club, Trapper had answered _that_ question:

"Boy, do I miss my wife!"

And there it was. His epiphany took all of a second, and it felt more devastating than any bombs or shells the war could have ever thrown at him. _That_ was where it was going, and _that_ was the thing that was bothering him. Somewhere in the weeks of kissing and groping in the shadows, he'd let himself forget. He'd let himself fall…

He hadn't flinched. He hadn't even faltered. He'd carried right on with the wise-cracks, and tried to ignore the fact that the more he played along, the more he was dying inside.

One minute.

It was ridiculous. They'd been fooling around for weeks now, and Trapper had yet to even touch him. And yet, already he was fluttering and fawning like an overgrown schoolboy!

Or maybe that was it. Maybe holding out for Trapper was screwing with his head when he ought to be just plain screwing. Maybe what he needed was…

"I've come to relieve ya."

Hawkeye nearly fell off his chair. Righting himself, he shoved the handover clipboard in Trapper's direction without looking up. "Chance'd be a fine thing." The words were mumbled in the direction of the desktop, and Trapper didn't catch them.

Tossing his stethoscope on top of the pile of papers, Hawkeye rose from his chair and shrugged his white coat off. "Nothing to report. They all took their one o'clock meds like good little soldiers, and now they're spark out. The only disturbance is the cacophony of snoring. Especially the guy in three – he makes more racket than the war."

Chuckling, Trapper glanced over the papers and signed in. Hawkeye pulled his khaki over-shirt on in silence, already picturing the large, teatime Martini he knew was waiting in the still…

"I get off at ten." Trapper's declaration was uttered without ceremony or preamble.

Hawkeye bristled slightly. "Good for you." He walked away, his hands shoved into his pockets. But Trapper followed, catching up with him at the door.

Radar's office was mercifully empty when Trapper caught him by the elbow. "C'mon – I've been thinkin' about ya all day."

"Really?!" Hawkeye didn't bother to keep his shock hidden. With all the fuss Trapper had been making over the nurses, _that_ was the last thing he'd expected to hear.

Trapper shrugged. "Yeah. Well, y'know, with the nurses gone an' everything…"

Hawkeye's heart sank. "Yeah, well…" A sneering comment hovered on the tip of his tongue, but his heart wasn't in it. "Another time." He shrugged Trapper's hand from his arm, and was met with no resistance as he walked out into the compound.

* * *

Less than a week later, and it was all over. Crisis averted, high alert cancelled, nothing to report but Five O'Clock Charlie moonlighting as a mailman.

The nurses were back. Trapper had grabbed Baker off the back of the truck like he was a starving person and she was a prize ham. Hawkeye had grabbed Mitchell, too, but the kiss he gave her wasn't one of celebration – it was desperation. He knew he was driving headlong into an emotional disaster. Maybe some soft, feminine company might be enough to break his fall. Maybe if he had someone to pique his interest other than Trapper…

But even as he smiled and joked and flirted, he could focus on nothing but the sight of Trapper standing beside him, pawing at Baker like a horny teenager.

This is how it would always be. They would charm, seduce and fondle the nurses in public, and then kiss one another in secret behind closed doors, or in the shadows behind the garbage; make eyes at one another across the O.C. while they danced with the girls…

And then, one day, Trapper would go home to his wife, the ultimate Publicly Acceptable Partner.

Hawkeye shuddered. There was no point in dwelling on that; no point in entertaining the resentment he felt. Nothing good lay down that path, and this was supposed to be _fun._ He had turned away, flung his arm around Mitchell's shoulders, and led her away towards the Swamp.

Now, he sat alone, his despair vented, and a quiet melancholy growing steadily in its place. He flicked through a magazine, idly scanning the words without reading, the scent of perfume clinging to his skin. It was raining now, and the miserable rattle of the water on the canvas of his tent matched his mood perfectly: his anger was gone, but there was a gloominess that had set in now, almost like an emotional hangover.

The door swung open and Trapper rushed in from the rain, huddled in his coat. "Yo," he said by way of greeting.

Hawkeye raised a hand and waved, not turning away from his magazine.

Trapper took his usual seat by the stove, and sat in silence for a moment. "I'm due in post-op," he announced, as if this might prompt Hawkeye to respond favourably.

"Don't let me keep you."

"Hawk?"

Hawkeye turned a page. "Yeah."

For several seconds, the tent was silent. At last, Trapper spoke. "About… uh… about that thing we did in the supply shed?" Trapper's voice was low and secretive – a special tone, Hawkeye noted, that he used when talking about their affair. It reminded Hawkeye a tone one might use when discussing how to conceal a dead body, and it made him shudder.

"Which time?"

"Uh… the last time."

Even the thought of it brought the jealousy rising up like bile, and he tossed his magazine aside. Maybe it would be best to call it quits. Get out now – before he was in too deep… "Does Baker want a reprise? Tell her all my evenings are booked, and I don't do matinees."

Trapper stared back at him, his brow lined with concern, and his mouth drown into a tight frown. "What's eatin' you?"

Hawkeye gave an exasperated sigh. "Like you said: 'That… _thing_ we did in the supply room!' How was it you put it? 'Watching' each other? Right – you watch Baker and I spend half an hour staring at the back of your head! What a lot of fun _that_ was!" He glared pointedly at Trapper, but Trapper was staring at his boots and didn't seem to be paying attention.

"You're right – it wasn't."

"Huh." Hawkeye blinked. Of all the things he had expected Trapper to say, he hadn't expected that.

"I could tell somethin' was buggin' ya."

"How very perceptive…"

"It was buggin' me, too. I've been tryin'a get some alone time with ya, to try an'… talk it out." He gestured vague in desperation as he struggled for the words.

Hawkeye nodded. "And there was me thinking you just wanted me to jerk you off behind the X-ray machine."

Trapper let that pass without comment, shaking his head sadly. "Truth is… when you were with Mitchell like that… I could barely even look atcha. Just… didn't do it for me the way I thought it would. Crazy, huh?" He laughed, beating his fist against his knee as he struggled to find the words. "I didn't think… God, I'm such a moron." Looking up, he gave Hawkeye a weak smile. "I didn't expect it, but… I think I like ya, you know? An' I guess… what I'm tryin'a say is… do you think there's any chance we could – I don't even know what the word is! – go steady or somethin'? Nobody else? No girls?"

Hawkeye stared at him. His words were bliss and torture all at once. He couldn't even hope to respond. He couldn't take everything he'd felt and done over the past few days and package it into a neatly comprehendible sequence of words. So, instead, he laughed.

Trapper's face fell. "That's a 'no', huh?"

Hawkeye was astounded. "After all that fuss you made when the nurses shipped out, _you_ want to swear off girls?"

"It was just an idea…"

"It's a _terrible_ idea," Hawkeye reiterated. "Like you said, if we stop chasing nurses, somebody's gonna notice. First of all, the _nurses_! I've blown Mitchell off so many times, there are weather girls in Seoul issuing typhoon warnings! And furthermore…"

"We gotta keep up appearances. I get it."

"Not just that!" Hawkeye sat up, moving closer, trying to force himself to say the thing he didn't want to say; the thing he didn't even like to think about. "Trapper, you're married. How can this ever be exclusive when you have a _wife_?"

"But she ain't here!"

"Doesn't matter." Hawkeye shook his head. "Do you have any idea how many times you mentioned her these last few days?"

"I was kiddin' around! With the nurses gone an' everythin'!"

"That's not the point. This whole mess was a very vivid reminder of something I shouldn't have let myself forget: that this is _not_ a long term arrangement!"

"So, where's the harm goin' steady? It's just for a few months 'til one of us gets shipped Stateside!"

" _Exactly_! This isn't supposed to be _serious_ – we're just fooling around! Passing time. Enjoying each other's company. We can't go bringing _monogamy_ into this!" He noted Trapper's miserable expression, and tried not to feel too guilty. "Trust me, we can't. It'll just… _complicate_ things. I don't want that." Even as he uttered the words, he sensed it was too late. "We _have_ to keep seeing the nurses!"

"Alright. You made yer point."

"Good. I'm glad that's settled." Hawkeye relaxed again, and buried his nose in his magazine once more.

Trapper frowned, then stood, and tucked his hands into his pockets again. "Forget I mentioned it."

"Consider it forgotten."

"That's… good." Trapper nodded, staring into space. "You're right – it's just a bit of fun, right? It's not like it's gonna go anywhere."

"Exactly."

Trapper began to head towards the door. "So… can I take ya out tonight?"

Hawkeye peered around from behind his magazine. If there was ever the right opportunity, it was now…

Then Trapper smiled that big, hopeful, adorable smile of his, and Hawkeye's resolve crumbled into dust. The familiar butterflies beginning to flutter once more… "You can't resist me, can you?"

Trapper shook his head, and made no attempt to disguise the look on his face. "I really can't."

Even though he knew it was stupid, even though he knew it was doomed, Hawkeye found himself smiling back. "Wouldn't miss it for all the nurses south of the 38th Parallel."

"Great! That's… great."

Had Hawkeye not turned back to his magazine, he would have noticed Trapper breathe a sigh of a relief before he ducked back out into the compound. But he did. Then, Trapper was gone, and Hawkeye was alone with his thoughts…

His thoughts, as it turned out, were lousy company.

He tossed his magazine angrily towards the stove, knocking a pot of coffee onto the floor. He couldn't believe it! How could Trapper be so selfish? 'Go steady'?! Of all the stupid ideas…

Fuming silently, he bedded down in his cot, clutching his pillow. Like there could _ever_ be an ounce of exclusivity in this! He knew well enough that Trapper was not all his, and he wasn't about to even pretend to kid himself that he was. And he sure as hell wasn't going to let himself be all Trapper's…

Trapper had been right about one thing: the path they were on was set in stone. He would be flying home to Louise in a matter of months. That much was certain. No matter how he felt about him – ' _And how is that, exactly_?' – how could Hawkeye even contemplate going steady when he had _that_ looming on the horizon? Part of him almost wished that he could. He just… didn't have that capacity. And he realised that he was angry not with Trapper – but with himself.

Hawkeye dealt with jealousy in painfully predictable ways, and he was as lousy at fidelity as he was at commitment.

How could he make a promise like that when he knew he couldn't keep it? How could he make a commitment when his lover was a married man? And how could he promise fidelity when, less than an hour ago, he'd been consoling himself in Nurse Mitchell's arms?


	5. FIVE...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having ridden off together on a white horse, Trapper and Hawkeye find themselves in the beautiful Korean countryside, and decide to make the most of their solitude by continuing Trapper's 'education'. (Set after the party at the end of 'Life With Father'. The episode order has been altered to accommodate the emotional arc of the story.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I held off posting for a while due to the news over New Year's. Thank you to my readers for your patience, but given the adult nature of this instalment, I wanted to leave off the writing for a while; I'm posting two chapters today to compensate.

**Korea – May, 1951**

****

The branches swayed, the birds sang, and the tree creaked ever so gently in the wind. The blossom had fallen, and green leaves were breaking free from their buds, standing out in bright contrast with the crisp, unbroken blue of the spring sky. Trapper stared up at them, trying to focus on anything – _anything_ – other than the glorious torture that Hawkeye was inflicting upon him. He'd wanted to make this last, but Hawkeye, as always, seemed determined to show off his talents, and was taking no prisoners.

This seemed so surreal. He was standing in the middle of the Korean landscape, his back pressed hard against the trunk of a tree, his scrubs around his ankles, with Hawkeye Pierce on his knees in front of him. Just a few minutes ago, he'd been at a party, drinking with his buddies, twirling with a nurse. Then Hawkeye had swooped in on a white horse and they'd ridden off into the Korean countryside together. Him and Hawkeye. His knight in shining surgical whites. He could almost go so far as to think it romantic.

They were well into Spring, now. It was a sunny, warm evening, and Hawkeye had declared it was far too nice a day to be cooped up inside. They had ridden past the edge of the compound, past the farms and the shacks, and far, far past the reaches of the shells and snipers. Here, everything was lush and beautiful, and Hawkeye had released the horse to graze nearby, then led Trapper on a gentle stroll up the hill. There, he had waxed lyrical about the view, kissed him tenderly, and declared that he wanted to go down on him, and would Trapper mind awfully, but he'd been thinking about this for a week now?

Trapper didn't mind at all.

Risking a glance downwards, he heard himself let out an undignified whine at the sight of Hawkeye on his knees in front of him, doing unspeakable things with his mouth. It looked… almost obscene, seeing his friend like that. Degrading, unmasculine…

Sensing an audience, Hawkeye glanced upwards and murmured appreciatively, sending pleasant little ripples and vibrations straight to the place where they would do the most damage.

"Oh, Jeez!" Trapper's legs started to shake. He'd hoped to give Hawkeye more warning than this, but a garbled "Hawk, I'm gonna…" barely made it past his lips before climax ripped through him. His knees buckled and his eyes screwed closed and his hands clenched into fists as he cried out, his voice echoing in the emptiness.

Hawkeye didn't stop. He didn't even flinch.

Trapper returned to planet earth breathless and giddy, sliding to an undignified sitting position at the base of the tree, nose to nose with Hawkeye. Chuckling, Hawkeye rose up on his knees and shuffled closer, hovering above the dazed Trapper with a smug look on his face. "I told you I was good."

He leaned in for a kiss, but Trapper recoiled. "What're you doin'?"

"I'm kissing you."

Trapper made a face, horrified at the thought of where Hawkeye's mouth had just been. "Could you not?"

Rolling his eyes, Hawkeye conceded, swung around and took a seat on the ground beside Trapper, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "You're such a prude."

"Sorry."

Hawkeye shrugged. "It's your loss." He fished a small hip flask out of the pocket of his field jacket and took a swig.

In the interests of dignity, Trapper tucked himself back into his shorts and pulled his scrubs back up, still feeling slightly stunned at what he'd just done. He grinned dreamily, his head swimming a little in his post-orgasmic haze. "You're filthy."

"Guilty as charged." Hawkeye swirled the liquor around his mouth and shot Trapper a wink.

Trapper smiled, gazing out across the pasture as the grass danced and the clouds rolled by. "My wife never did anythin' like that for me."

An icy look passed over Hawkeye's face, and he capped his flask and straightened up, squaring his shoulders. "Well, here's a new thing we can try: It's called 'you don't mention your wife when you're in bed with me'. Think you'd be up for that one?"

"This ain't a bed – it's a tree." Hawkeye glared, and Trapper gave an apologetic half-smile. "Sorry." He pulled Hawkeye into a comforting hug, and the pair of them lay down together in the long, wild grass. There, hidden away, they cuddled up together, fully clothed, and a little too warm.

This was always the case, it seemed. They had yet to really feel the intimacy of skin on skin. They'd agreed early on to avoid getting naked in case somebody caught them and they had to act nonchalant – and acting nonchalant was far easier if you weren't buck naked with your bunkie. Here, the likelihood of anybody catching them was remote, but old habits died hard, and Korea was lousy with MPs. Trapper extracted a cigarillo from his jacket pocket, and went to light up.

Hawkeye wrinkled his nose. " _Could you not_?" He smirked as he echoed Trapper's words.

"Hey! I was a _party '_ fore you showed up on your gee-gee! I was _savin'_ this!" Hawkeye continued to pout. "You fink… always twistin' my arm with those baby blues!" Rolling his eyes, Trapper relented and pocketed the cigar. He held Hawkeye instead, intrigued by how such a gangly human being could curl into his embrace so perfectly. Hawkeye's head tucked under his chin, his long limbs worming their way around his body like he was anchoring himself to him.

"We _really_ ought'a be gettin' back…"

"I don't see you moving."

"You ain't either."

"Oh? I thought I was."

They lay there for the longest time. Trapper's eyes closed, weary and heavy now the excitement had abated.

But Hawkeye wasn't sleeping. Hawkeye was grinding languidly against his hip, murmuring softly against his ear. Trapper smirked. "Are you doin' what I think you're doin'?"

Hawkeye made a soft little moan and kissed his neck. "I don't know. What am I doing? You've driven me out of my mind with desire, so you'll have to tell me."

Trapper bit his lip at the little stab of guilt he felt at Hawkeyes words. He was beginning to lose count of the number of orgasms he'd had by Hawkeye's hand (and mouth, in the case of the most recent one) over the past few weeks. And every time, Hawkeye had been left to relieve his own… tensions, so to speak. It wasn't that Trapper didn't find him attractive – it was just that the idea of venturing below Hawkeye's army-issue khaki belt held connotations that he wasn't ready to deal with. Hawkeye, he had to admit, had been remarkably patient.

Swallowing his nerves, Trapper rolled over to face him. At times like this, Hawkeye looked really quite beautiful: black hair all messed up, wild grass framing his face and dancing about him, his eyes dark with desire. Trapper couldn't refuse him a moment longer. Biting the bullet, he pulled him close and kissed him. His heart was pounding as Hawkeye continued to roll his hips against his thigh, unmistakeably aroused, even through layers of cloth. There was renewed excitement brewing in Trapper's belly, but something else there, too; something he didn't know how to put into words.

This new territory was frightening, but he couldn't deny the effect that Hawkeye's body had on him, not to mention the breathy, needy little moans in his ear. In spite of his nerves, he felt ready to go again…

Newly invigorated, he groped blindly at Hawkeye's scrawny form, his hands running over his back and thighs with no real goal or purpose in mind.

Hawkeye soon pointed him in the right direction: he grabbed his hand and pulled it gently in the direction of his crotch. "See what you do to me?"

That seductive whisper was a bolt of sexual electricity straight to Trapper's groin, but the feel of him grinding against his palm stirred up a whole mess of emotions. The excitement was intense, the rush exquisite, and yet something dark and disturbing bubbled up in the back of his mind, like he shouldn't be doing this; he shouldn't be touching another man like this…

His face flushed with embarrassment. Hawkeye's hands were gentle, his grasp light, coaxing but not forcing. Trapper could have pulled away if he wanted to – except he didn't. Instead, he buried his face in the crook of Hawkeye's neck, inhaling deeply as he continued to cup and caress him through his clothing. Nobody else mattered, he told himself. Nobody mattered but Hawkeye.

Enthused by Trapper's responses, Hawkeye shrugged his jacket off, tossing it aside before wrapping his lover in his arms once more. Trapper withdrew his hand for a moment so he could wrestle his scrubs down, returning it a moment later, and expecting to feel cotton underwear against his palm.

He didn't. He felt bare flesh.

Trapper whipped his hand away like he'd been burned.

Hawkeye let out a cry of exasperation. "Trapper, it's just a penis! It's not gonna bite!"

His phrasing was glib, but his face gave away a genuine hurt, and then, almost immediately afterwards, remorse. Trapper could see it in his eyes, and it _stung_. He didn't want to be the guy who made Hawkeye feel like that. He didn't want him to think he was untouchable.

Swallowing his stupid paranoia, Trapper laid a hand on his naked hip and pulled him close again. The offending organ prodded him in the belly. "I'm okay," Trapper said, not really feeling it. "It's just…"

"Trapper…"

"This is new, is all. Don't worry about it."

"If you don't want to…"

"No, come on. I'm fine now…"

"You don't have to."

"Maybe if we…"

Hawkeye's reassurance was lost as Trapper struggled to silence his doubts. He knew he didn't have to – but he _wanted_ to. He wanted to make Hawkeye feel good. He wanted to touch him and pleasure him and do all those things that Hawkeye had done to him. Why couldn't he just relax and go with it without thinking so damned much? He tried for something more familiar, something that felt safe and less daunting. Manoeuvring Hawkeye onto his back, he settled between his legs and dropped his pants.

Skin met skin, and Trapper gasped.

Shifting beneath him, Hawkeye gazed up, his earlier sharpness forgotten. He gave his hips an experimental wriggle. "This work for you?" he asked.

Trapper swallowed another gasp and nodded. "I'll say…" This was… surreal. A warm breeze was playing against his bare backside, and there were birds singing in the trees. It was almost romantic! Hawkeye looked so perfect laid out beneath him – dreamy, half-lidded eyes, a playful smile on his lips – and when Trapper slipped his hand in between their bodies… " _Oh_!" It wasn't bad. In fact, it wasn't so different to touching himself. And the _sound_ Hawkeye made when Trapper touched him… Oh, that was something he could get used to hearing! He should have known Hawkeye would be loud…

Hawkeye's hand joined his, and together, they found a rhythm, attuning to one another's bodies. It was… nice. It was _better_ than nice. It felt natural. Perfect. Right.

Hawkeye was the first to lose it. Trapper had to admit, it was really quite an amazing sight. Earlier hesitations forgotten, Trapper focussed on nothing but Hawkeye's pleasure, and the beautiful picture he made. His back arched and his head flung back into the grass and he thrashed, moaning almost obscenely. Trapper wanted to bite his neck – hard enough to leave a mark. Hawkeye's knees rose off the ground and his thighs squeezed around Trapper's waist. Trapper gasped as he was pulled tighter against Hawkeye's trembling body. "Christ, Hawk…" The words fell from his lips as if in a daze. "You're beautiful like this…"

Hawkeye's eyelids flickered and his teeth clamped down on his lower lip. "Yeah?"

"Yeah… so fuckin' beautiful…"

"You want me?"

" _Always_ want you…"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah…"

"Mmmm…" Hawkeye gave another shudder, and pulled Trapper down for a kiss. "You wanna fuck me?"

The words were whispered against his lips, but Trapper heard every one as clear as day. They swept over him like a tidal wave, bringing with them a bombardment of images he had scarcely allowed himself to entertain even in his wildest daydreams; images of Hawkeye laid out beneath him just like this, his legs spread, his head flung back in ecstasy as Trapper…

His second orgasm hit him out of nowhere before he could even think about holding back. His hands shook and an undignified sound escaped his lips as he totally lost all semblance of control. He was only vaguely aware of Hawkeye shaking beneath him through his own climax. If it wasn't for the unmistakeable moaning, he might have missed it all together.

When his vision cleared and his muscles stopped shaking, he found himself slumped on top of Hawkeye, panting and sweaty, a messy heap of skin and scrubs at the foot of a tree. A slightly pained voice in his ear gasped: "Do I take that as a 'maybe some other time'?"

 


	6. AND ONE TIME THEY DID.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Trapper facing an early flight home in light of an ulcer, he and Hawkeye realise they may not have much time left, and desperate emotions lead to desperate acts. (Takes place during 'Check-Up'. Episodes have been re-ordered slightly for the purposes of this story.)

**Korea - June, 1951**

****

"I'll keep a light burning for you in a bedpan…"

Hawkeye's eyes glistened. His throat felt tight, his voice cracking. It was almost too much to process. Trapper was going home. Because of an _ulcer_ – of all the crazy things that could get a guy sent stateside – his best friend would be leaving this cesspool for good. He knew he was crying. Trapper was crying, too. There were no more words to do the feeling justice.

As if overwhelmed, Hawkeye turned away, sniffing and pouring himself a drink. His hand shook, and he wiped his face, struggling to compose himself.

"Oh, hey…" Unable to hold back a moment longer, Trapper stood and crossed the room, kneeling beside Hawkeye. He loitered, his hand hovering inches from Hawkeye's trembling knee, unsure of how to help. Emotional talks and reassuring words were not his strongpoint! Eventually, he swallowed his nerves, leaning close and wrapping his arms around him. His hands grasped at his robe, stroking affectionately over red corduroy. Hawkeye abandoned his Martini and hugged him back, resting his chin on the top of Trapper's head. Trapper felt his tears dampen his hair.

Reluctantly, they parted. And then, despite the dangers, Trapper reached out with a shaking hand and cupped Hawkeye's cheek. It was risky: it was broad daylight, and the canvas sides of the tent were rolled up, exposing them to the curious eyes of anybody who happened to glance their way. But he couldn't _not_ touch! His fingers moved gently across tear-streaked skin and thick black stubble, until the pad of his thumb pressed against Hawkeye's lips. Hawkeye kissed it.

When their eyes met, each of them knew what would happen next – after all, they may never get another chance.

Less than a minute later, they were stumbling into the supply shed, still tearful and emotional, barely even caring if anybody saw them or questioned it. To hell with them… to hell with everybody.

The room was dark and stuffy. The weather was heating up now, marching them headlong into a blistering Korean summer. The small, north-facing window barely let in a scrap of sun, but Hawkeye didn't even have time to turn a light on. Trapper simply grabbed him, kissing him and pinning him against the door, much as he had done several weeks ago when they first found themselves in here in these circumstances.

Only this was different. This was uninhibited, unbridled, with none of those first-date nerves, and this time, they both knew exactly where this was going.

Trapper's hands were everywhere. His face, his throat, pulling at his clothes, and then finally, they descended below the waist, squeezing his ass gently and pulling him close. "Now who's the animal?" Hawkeye cracked, his voice still harsh from crying.

"Hawk?" Trapper's voice was a pained whisper against his skin. "I want…" He couldn't find the words. And even if he could, he couldn't bring himself to utter them.

Hawkeye nodded against him, his fingers toying with the neckline of his t-shirt. "I know."

It was all the agreement they needed. Hawkeye turned and began to shed his clothing without much concern. His robe and t-shirt were cast aside before Trapper could even comment on his recklessness.

"Hawk!"

The sound of his name made Hawkeye glance up from wrestling with his belt buckle. "What?"

Trapper nodded towards the door, and Hawkeye paused only to help him shunt a crate in front of it. Trapper's gaze was drawn to Hawkeye's now-naked torso, slender and pale in the dim light. Already, this felt dangerous, and Trapper's heart was pounding. "You think that's enough?" He gestured to the crate. It had taken two of them to move it, but... Trapper gave it an experimental shove.

For an extra measure, Hawkeye grabbed a broom and slid it under the door handle.

Why did that not make Trapper feel any safer?

Safe or not, though, he couldn't find it within himself to put the brakes on this. Barricaded within their humid little love-nest, Hawkeye continued to undress in silent desperation. Methodical, pragmatic… More skin was bared, and Trapper watched, unlacing his boots with shaking fingers. Suddenly, he could bear it no longer. Once Hawkeye was down to his khaki underwear, Trapper grabbed him, kissing him forcefully, pushing him towards the stained, sunken mattress in the corner.

They fell, half tripping, half throwing themselves to the floor, and Hawkeye gently opened his arms to embrace Trapper as he nestled against him. "Easy, easy!" Hawkeye's words reached Trapper's ears through a fog of desperation. "We've got all the time in the world."

"We ain't, though," Trapper replied, his voice betraying a depth of feeling Hawkeye had never heard before. They kissed again, parting only so Trapper could strip and so that Hawkeye could shimmy out of his boxers and retrieve the necessary supplies from his discarded fatigues. Naked at last, and shivering slightly, Trapper tossed his underwear aside, barely glancing at Hawkeye until he had scrambled onto the mattress to sit beside him.

He almost couldn't bring himself to look. He'd seen him naked in the showers, but never like this, and so, for the first time, Trapper let his eyes wander up and down Hawkeye's body as they embraced.

They'd never done it like this before. They always kept their clothes on. Somehow, the feeling of being naked beside his lover seemed even more intimate than the act itself. His hands found bare flesh everywhere they moved; naked limbs brushed against one another as they nestled together in the dark. It felt so good, feeling one another up close like this, but frightening all at once. When Trapper pulled Hawkeye close and kissed him, pushed him down onto the mattress, their bodies pressed together, not a scrap of clothing between them, and he shivered. "Jeez, Hawk… the things you do to me!"

Hawkeye snorted with laughter somewhere near his left ear. "Any specific things? That's getting to be quite a list…"

Trapper swallowed. "Yeah... yeah, it is." The list was getting longer by the day, he had to admit. And he was about to hit the final entry, so to speak.

Trapper shook his head to clear it. If he thought about it too hard, he realised, he couldn't do it. But that didn't matter – there wasn't time to think. Thinking could come later. He'd deal with that once he was on his way home to Louise. Right now, all the mattered was Hawkeye.

As he'd done before, he pushed Hawkeye onto his back, settling between his legs. But, as Hawkeye stared up at him, Trapper hesitated, unsure how this was supposed to work. "I don't wanna hurt ya," he offered by way of an explanation.

"You won't. Trust me on this."

Shaking a little, Trapper glanced him up and down once more, frozen in place, an anxious sweat rising on his skin. He shivered. "I don't... I don't know what I'm doin' here."

Hawkeye took the hint, and the lead. He shoved an army-issue prophylactic into Trapper's hand. "Put that on."

Sitting back on his heels, Trapper found himself fumbling with the tiny packet, nervous like a schoolboy. Twice, he nearly dropped it, distracted as he noticed Hawkeye unscrewing a familiar blue and white tube of surgical lubricant – packaging that reminded Trapper of countless other distinctly less erotic scenarios where he'd used that same product.

They made their preparations hastily and in silence, for which Trapper was almost grateful. Trapper's task was a familiar one, but what Hawkeye was doing made him blush! He could scarcely watch, until Hawkeye let out an obscene moan – a sound Trapper had learned to relish over the past week or so – and suddenly he couldn't take his eyes off him. This felt so strange: Hawkeye was sprawled naked before him, and, for the first time, Trapper felt no shame in looking. He moved close again, hovering over him, chest to chest, almost touching. As Hawkeye squirmed again, Trapper felt his body rise off the mattress and press against him. The next sound Hawkeye made was swallowed up in a kiss.

Trapper's hands were shaking. Some curious part of him ached to touch Hawkeye like that, to make him moan and arch and rut wantonly against Trapper's body, but he couldn't quite bring himself to make the offer. His shamelessness didn't quite go that far. Instead, he just watched, until, at last, Hawkeye wiped his hands on a convenient pair of shorts – Trapper couldn't tell whose – and gestured to him.

Settling between Hawkeye's legs once more, Trapper gazed at him, feeling strangely detached from reality. Was he really going to do this? A voice somewhere in the back of his head told him he shouldn't; a thousand voices called him a thousand names, and he struggled to silence them all. What did this mean? What did it make him?

It didn't matter now. Desire outstripped self-loathing. This was his last chance, and as he gazed down at the man lying beneath him, he knew he had to take it. He placed his hands on Hawkeye's knees, pushing them back and apart, and pressed forward.

He felt clumsy, and almost humiliatingly awkward. He slipped a little, and Hawkeye winced.

"Sorry."

"Don't worry about it."

"I can't..."

"Here, let me..."

Hawkeye slipped a hand between them to guide him. Trapper soon caught on and quickly followed his lead. And then, he moved forward just right, and the air was sucked from his lungs as he found himself buried deep inside Hawkeye.

He couldn't breathe. He was overwhelmed with the new sensation, the intensity, and the emotion. He hadn't expected it to feel so… different. Beneath him, Hawkeye whimpered, his breath coming in short, shallow pants. There were tears in his eyes. "You ok?" Trapper asked. "Am I hurtin' ya?"

Hawkeye shook his head. "Not really. It's just…" He paused, taking a deep breath in, and a calming breath out. "It's been a while. I think... Ah! I think I rushed myself. It's alright, though. Feels good." He smiled, and the movement made a tear fall. Trapper kissed it.

They remained perfectly still for a moment, locked in a strange mid-coital embrace, barely moving. Eventually, the need for release became too great, and Trapper began to rock gently against Hawkeye's body. They didn't speak, didn't laugh, didn't even take their eyes off each other. Trapper moved instinctively, and Hawkeye moved with him, his legs wrapping around Trapper's waist, as Baker's had done as he'd watched them. Trapper held him tightly, his hands stroking through his hair, his body covering him, holding him down when he began to thrash and arch, which only seemed to make him thrash more. Their gasping, rhythmic breathing filled the tiny room, steaming the tiny window, concealing them utterly from any passers-by. Hawkeye really moaned when he got going, and wailed when he came, but Trapper silenced him with a kiss, his own climax following shortly after. When he lifted his head, Hawkeye gazed up at him, his eyes glistening, and raised a hand to his cheek.

Neither of them spoke. Instead, they held one another for the longest time.

* * *

Trapper completed another lap of the almost empty Officer's Club, nearly tripping over the broom as Igor made a futile attempt to clean up. He seemed to be dancing, but he wasn't doing a very good job of it. For a start, he was trying to waltz to a tango.

Hawkeye watched over the rim of his Martini glass. He knew Trapper had drunk nothing but milk all night; he was drunk on emotion and exhaustion. The jukebox continued to play, and Trapper danced on:

 _'_ _When we are dancing and you're dangerously near me  
I get ideas, I get ideas…'_

Completing his circuit, Trapper reached a bar stool and slumped onto it, resting his head in his hands as he leaned on the bar.

"They're outta milk," Hawkeye told him with a smile.

Trapper looked up, raising his eyebrows. "I drained the bar?! Damn! I ain't done that since I was in college!"

Chuckling, Hawkeye swirled the remainder of his drink and debated ordering another. "It's okay, you know," he said, still staring into his glass. "You're allowed to be upset. If I were you, I would be. You don't have to pretend you're _glad_ to be stuck with me in this cesspool."

The words 'with me' were jumbled into the rest of the sentence, but he was begging for Trapper to notice them. Silence was the only reply as Trapper stared glumly at the wooden counter. And then, as if Hawkeye's words granted him permission, his shoulders suddenly shook, and he started to cry.

Just as Trapper had done for him not so long before, Hawkeye slid from his perch and rushed to Trapper's side, holding him, pulling him close. It was strange: they had cried before because he was leaving, and now, Trapper cried because he was staying. His body trembled, and he sobbed noisily into Hawkeye's silk robe.

"I just…" he began, choking on tears. "I miss my girls."

Hawkeye's heart jolted. For a moment there he had expected Trapper to say 'I miss my wife'. The relief was followed instantly by a wave of guilt. What if he'd _wanted_ to say that, but was censoring his own grief for Hawkeye's benefit? Suddenly, Hawkeye felt disgustingly selfish – selfish because his friend was having to hide his feelings, and selfish because he was _glad_ he was staying. He was _glad_ he was keeping him from his wife and his family. Keeping him for _himself_ , so they could fuck in the supply closet and make out behind the generator shed and make eyes at one another across crowded rooms.

"I'm sorry," he said weakly, stroking Trapper's arm. "I really am."

' _Am I_?' he thought, despising the idea that he might not be. But the sight and sound of Trapper in such distress answered the question, as Hawkeye found himself crying, too.

Trapper sniffed and pulled him into a bear hug. "It ain't your fault, is it? What the hell're you apologisin' for, huh?" He gave Hawkeye a somewhat forced smile.

Hawkeye managed a dry chuckle and shook his head. "Never mind."

Again, Trapper squeezed him tightly, and they stood at the bar, wrapped in each other's arms for several seconds. There was a clatter as Igor deposited his broom behind the bar and vanished to take out the trash, and, suddenly, they felt strangely hyper-aware that they were alone. Their embrace, without a single movement, suddenly became more intimate. The jukebox continued to play, and Trapper murmured along with it, his words barely audible, and a little out of key. "I want to hold you so much closer than I dare to… I want to scold you 'cause I care more than I care to…"

Hawkeye laughed. "Are you trying to sing, or is this some kind of acid reflux due to the ulcer?"

But Trapper wasn't listening; he was lost in Tony Martin's baritone, singing along to himself: "And after we have kissed goodnight and still you linger, I kinda think you get ideas too…" Trapper's voice cracked, and he held Hawkeye just a little tighter.

Hawkeye shivered in his embrace. It was a tender moment, broken all too suddenly as Igor returned with crates of beer, and Trapper pulled away, wiping his eyes and coughing loudly. He picked up his glass, remembered it was empty, set it down again, and announced loudly that it was time to turn in. Hawkeye complied without a word, and Tony continued to warble on as they staggered out.

 _'_ _Your eyes are always saying the things you're never saying_  
_I only hope they're saying that you could love me too._  
 _For that's the whole idea, it's true:_  
 _The lovely idea that_  
 _I'm falling in love with you…'_

They walked side by side back to the Swamp, not-quite-touching, in that way that had adopted long ago, long before this all began. They heard Frank and Margaret arguing loudly in her tent – an indication that they had at least a few minutes of alone time, or possibly more, depending on how the argument resolved itself – and retreated into the sanctuary of their shared quarters. The canvas had been drawn down for the night to conserve the warmth within, and now, tonight, it felt all the more intimate.

Trapper sat, unlacing his boots with painstaking care and setting them aside before shrugging off his robe. Hawkeye tossed his cowboy hat casually across the tent, and slid his silk robe from his shoulders. He was about to hang it up when he saw Trapper turn out his pockets, a ritual no different to any other night, only this time, as well as his usual scraps of paper and other detritus, he came out clutching a torn army-issue condom wrapper.

He froze for a moment. He must have pocketed it in haste when they'd cleared up the supply room earlier that day.

Hawkeye felt a sudden chill. It was strange, but now he found himself faced with evidence of their frantic tryst, he wasn't sure how Trapper was going to take the whole thing. They'd acted out of passionate desperation, believing that they would probably never see one another again. How would Trapper feel about it now?

Hawkeye wasn't sure he wanted to know. As Trapper disposed of his pocket garbage in the stove, Hawkeye turned away, hanging his silk robe next to Trapper's yellow one, his hand trailing over the fluff of the towelling cloth. He didn't hear Trapper approach, until, as if out of nowhere, his hands were on him, and Hawkeye found himself being squeezed tightly in a warm pair of arms. He turned to face him. "Oh, _hi_ ," he purred, masking his surprise under his usual, overtly-sexual charisma.

"Hey," Trapper murmured. He gave a tight smile.

"You okay?"

Trapper shrugged. "Yeah…" His fingers stroked gently over Hawkeye's nape. "It's been a rough day," he confessed, "but I still got you though, right?"

Hawkeye smiled. "Of course you do." A playful insult lingered at the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed Trapper gently on the lips.

Kissing him back only briefly, Trapper glanced furtively through the little window in their front door. The lights in Houlihan's tent were now dimmed, with Frank still nowhere to be seen, and the camp was quiet. "It looks like we got the place to ourselves. What do you say we have our own private party 'fore Frank slinks back in the small hours?"

Another kiss. "You mean here?"

"Yeah." Trapper kissed a trail up his jawline. "Right here." He nibbled on Hawkeye's neck, sucking gently at the soft skin he found there.

Hawkeye melted in his arms, and Trapper tugged the blind down over the window.

**Author's Note:**

> This concludes Part 2 of this series. Part 3, 'Snapshot' is a short interlude of 500 words. Part 4 marks the beginning of the plot! Many, many thanks to all of you who sent feedback - this is always appreciated. If you enjoy my writing, feel free to drop me a line here, and/or follow me on tumblr: http://hawkeye-piercintyre.tumblr.com/


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